


Retrocausality

by extraonions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel/Dean Winchester (Implied), Disturbing Themes, Gen, Mild Language, Religious Themes, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraonions/pseuds/extraonions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel laid a hand on John's shoulder. "I have seen your future, John. I can promise you this much—sacrifice the Colt now, for Dean, and the day will come when a Winchester holds it again. Within the year, Azazel will be dead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrocausality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowbyrd](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shadowbyrd).



> Please see this story [at my livejournal](http://extraonions.livejournal.com/85187.html) for notes and credits.

## Retrocausality

> _For I am even now being offered, and my end is near. I have made a good fight, I have come to the end of my journey, I have kept the faith._
> 
> Timothy 4:6-7

  


* * *

  


"Get the hell away from my son!" John snarled, the Colt aimed steadily at the man currently leaning over Dean's still, battered form. A quick glance took in Sam's unconscious _(please be unconscious, not dead)_ body slumped in the uncomfortable visitor's chair next to Dean's hospital bed.

The man looked harmless enough, wearing a rumpled suit and a tan colored trench coat. But everything about him screamed _otherworldly_ to John's honed instincts.

The man—if man he was, which John doubted—looked up at John in total unconcern. "Put the Colt away, John Winchester," he said. "We both know that bullet is meant for someone else."

"How do I know you're not the thing I want to kill?" John countered, stepping closer to Sam. He was breathing. John didn't allow his relief to unsteady his grip on the gun. "Sam? Sam, wake up!" John demanded, but there was no response. Unconscious, then.

"Sam is unharmed. But he won't be joining us for this conversation." The man reached out as if to touch Dean and John raised the Colt higher.

"Back off, now!"

The man cocked his head sideways at John and stepped back from Dean's bedside. He motioned towards the Colt. "You're planning to kill Azazel with it, aren't you?"

That name; the name John suspected was the yellow-eyed demon's true name. Watching the man carefully, John said, "Christo." There was no flinch, no darkened eyes, nothing. Huh. "If you aren't Azazel, then who are you?"

"My name is Castiel. I'm not a demon, John." Castiel broke into a recitation of a flawless exorcism ritual. John relaxed slightly, enough to tuck the Colt away.

"Castiel, huh? So, you're not a demon; what are you?" No way was this Castiel a regular hunter—there was something about the way he looked at you, right through you—a harnessed sort of power that made John sure he was dealing with something supernatural.

"I am an angel of the Lord."

What. The. Hell?

"An angel," John said, flatly. Fucking Christ, bad enough Dean was dying because John had let the goddamn yellow-eyed demon possess him, but now he had to deal with a lunatic escapee hospital patient who thought he was a fucking angel? No such thing. Except. This Castiel knew their names. He knew about the Colt; knew Azazel's name.

Mary believed in angels, a traitorous part of John's brain supplied.

"Prove it," John said, edging closer to Sam and fumbling in his son's jacket pocket for another weapon. His hand closed on a small knife. Pure iron, judging from the heft and weight.

"Are you planning to stab me with that?" Castiel asked, sounding slightly amused. "I assure you, it won't kill me, but you're welcome to try all the same."

Castiel turned his back to John, seemingly unconcerned about the knife in his hand or the Colt at his waist. He stepped over to the window and looked out. The sun was streaming in through the open blinds, and for just an instant, John saw them arching out gracefully from Castiel's back.

_Shiiiiit._ An angel. Goddamn wings.

An angel in a fucking cheap suit.

Huh.

Okay, so there was an angel in Dean's hospital room. Maybe an angel. John wasn't quite ready to believe, not yet. But he could work with it.

"Are you here to help Dean?" John asked. He could hear Mary's voice in his mind, tucking Dean in and promising him that angels were protecting him. Looking at Dean's pale face and the invasive medical equipment that was all that was keeping his son alive, John couldn't help but pray for a miracle.

Castiel turned and walked back to Dean's bedside. "In a manner of speaking."

Hope and suspicion warred in John's chest, but he pressed on. "Can you heal him?"

Ignoring John, Castiel placed his hand against Dean's forehead, almost tenderly, his brow furrowing slightly as his gaze went unfocused. The angel's expression softened.

"I cannot," Castiel said. "Dean is very close to death. Even now, his soul is being wooed away by a reaper." John watched, unsettled, as the angel ran a hand through Dean's hair and trailed his fingers down one cheek.

"If I could, I would grant Dean the peace of death right now," Castiel said softly, and John tensed. His hand started inching towards the Colt. Castiel continued, "He would be welcomed as a warrior and rest in the fields of the Lord forever." The angel's gaze met John's. "Even as his mother's soul now rests."

_Mary._ There was a sharp pang in John's chest, but even through the pain, he felt a sense of relief. After hearing what happened to his sons in Lawrence, he hadn't been sure. He had never been sure where unquiet spirits went, when he burned their bones or forced them to move on. The thought that his wife had been one of them, trapped in the ruins of their home, weighed on John heavily.

But Dean was his concern right now.

"It's not Dean's time yet. The Lord still has work for him," Castiel said.

"So heal him, already," John snapped. "You're an angel."

"I can't." Castiel stared at John; stared through him. "Humans have what angels have always lacked; free will. You must exercise yours if you wish to save your son." Castiel's gaze traveled to Sam, whose long arms dangled loosely to the ground. "Both your sons."

John's blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

Castiel was suddenly right _there_, right up in John's face. "Don't play the fool, John. You already know what Sam is. What he might become."

John flinched, because God help him, he did. His research; the other children touched by Azazel. Sam's psychic powers. All the signs were there.

"I have seen the future," Castiel hissed. "I have bled for your family, killed for them. All to save your sons. Let me show you what Sam will become, if Dean dies now." Then Castiel's fingers touched John's forehead, and the world fell away in a haze of white light.  


* * *

  


The images which flowed past John's horrified eyes painted the picture more thoroughly than mere words ever could:

_Sam, standing over an unmarked grave—Dean's grave—a simple cross in the middle of a forest, his eyes dead._

Flash.

_Sam, stitching himself up after a hunt gone wrong, never flinching as the needle entered his flesh over and over and over again._

Flash.

_Sam, killing another hunter—was that Steve Wandell?_

Flash. Flash.

_Sam, drunk and angry and reckless; scrabbling at the dirt of a crossroads. Trying and failing to make a deal. Sam, black-eyed and holding Ellen's little girl, little Jo all grown up, with a knife to her throat. Laughing. _

"Stop. Stop," John gasped, but Castiel was relentless.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

_Sam, sucking blood from a dark haired demon's wrist like it was a fine wine. The demon bitch laughed and laughed while Sam fucked her. Sam, pointing a gun at—sweet God, no—pointing a gun at Kate Milligan. How did Sam find Adam?_

Sam, draining a corpse of blood; his entire face smeared with it.

Sam.

His son.  


* * *

  


John clutched the edge of Dean's hospital bed in sickened terror. That future. There had to be a way to stop it. One son dead, and the other a monster. And the third. . . . It couldn't come to pass. He wouldn't let it. John squeezed Dean's leg reassuringly and turned to look at Sam.

For a moment, all he could see was Sam's blood-drenched grin and demon-black eyes glittering back at him. Not his son.

"What can I do?" John whispered hoarsely.

"Would you die for them?" Castiel asked. "Would you give up your chance to kill Azazel?"

Killing the demon—John couldn't leave that undone. For a moment, John struggled with himself; told himself the boys understood.

_Not before everything._

Mary's killer. His sweet, innocent Mary.

"I—"

A flicker of anger passed over the angel's face.

"Perhaps there's something else you need to see," Castiel said, and before John could step away, Castiel touched John and tugged him back into the blinding white light.  


* * *

  


There, breathtaking in the moonlight, was Mary. Brown suede jacket; unruly curls. "Mary," John breathed, his one good arm reaching out for her. Wait. He remembered this. This was Lawrence, the night Mary came to him in tears and asked him to take her away—the night her parents died. Castiel had brought John to the past?

A sense of wonder captured John at the thought, looking at his younger self holding Mary tightly. Jesus. They were both such kids back then. Even him, fresh back from the horrors of 'Nam. So innocent.

And now John had the chance to keep it that way. All he had to do. . . . Well, they might not believe him, precisely, but John could _warn_ them. He would convince them somehow. A little salt on the windowsills. Learn an exorcism. Anything. John could save his family. Mary would never die, Sam would never—and Dean. Dean wouldn't be in a hospital right now with his guts shredded because the fucking yellow eyed demon used John's own body to tear his boy up. He started forward, but a hand clamped down on John's injured arm, causing him to wince.

"No." That was Castiel.

The fuck? This so-called angel was going to bring him to the past and then not let him take the opportunity? "That's my wife, goddamnit! Let me go!" John growled, struggling fruitlessly against Castiel's iron grip on his arm. The angel's face remained stoic, but John thought he saw a hint of sympathy lurking in his eyes. John couldn't help the sob that slipped past his lips as he sagged a little against Castiel. "Please . . ."

"I'm sorry, John. It cannot be," Castiel said. "I brought you here, to this time, so that you could see, and truly understand the curse your family has fallen under. To see what began this night. Not to change it." John shook his head. There had to be a way to change what happened.

"There's something about Mary and her family that she kept secret from you, although she had noble intentions. The night of her death was not Mary's first brush with the supernatural."

"What?"John let his arm fall to his side, and looked at Castiel warily. After everything else he'd seen since this bastard of an angel appeared in Dean's hospital room, John was almost beyond doubting him.

"The Campbells were hunters, John. For generations, as skilled a family of hunters as you could ever imagine."

"She was . . . her parents were . . . ." Shock led John's voice to trail off, incredulous. Hunters. Huh. It explained a hell of a lot, actually. John shook his head again, scratched a hand through the stubble on his jaw.

"You must not interfere. More rests on this than you could possibly know," Castiel murmured, tilting his head towards Mary and John's younger self. "Azazel possessed Mary's father, Samuel Campbell. He used Samuel to kill Deanna when she tried to stop him. Then Azazel sought out Mary, and killed you." As John watched, Samuel Campbell rushed up behind his younger self and Mary, snapping his neck. The air rushed from John's lungs as he watched himself die and heard Mary's anguished cries.

"Killed . . . wait, I just died?" John could feel the whole fabric of his universe tugged out from under him at these revelations. He remembered so little of the night Mary's parents had died—a murder/ suicide, the Lawrence police had ruled. He'd been hailed a hero by the town, stopping Mary's inexplicably crazed father from killing her as well. John had always put his lack of memory down to some kind of screwball PTSD after coming back from 'Nam. They had married before it was quite decent to do so, after, and they rarely talked about it.

But now, knowing the truth behind the lie— if John had died that night, and the Campbells were hunters—it meant. . . . He couldn't hear what Samuel's possessed corpse was saying, but he could see well enough Mary's haunted expression, her utter devastation when confronted with his younger self's dead body. Then John knew. He just knew.

"She made a deal. Mary made a fucking deal with the yellow-eyed bastard. That's why he killed her?" John's hands were clenched into fists. Dear God. . . . he whirled and punched repeatedly at the rough tree trunk they stood below in helpless rage. Panting, John turned and leveled his furious gaze at Castiel, standing inscrutable and calm beside him. "For me? Fuck that. I'm going to stop it."

Sighing, the angel tapped John on the forehead, and John found himself unable to move. "This can't be stopped, John. Not even for Dean can I allow that," Castiel commented. "This past is immutable. The future is likewise set on its current course because of Mary's choice. In ten years, Azazel will enter your home. He will feed his demonic essence to Sam and your wife will try to stop him. She will perish in the attempt."

Samuel—no, fucking Azazel—was kissing Mary. Sealing the deal.

John struggled against the invisible bonds restraining him, screaming silently as even his mouth seemed unable to move. Tears streamed down his face, his eyes apparently the only part of his body still free to move. _No, Mary!_

And Sam. That fucking demon _tainted_ his baby boy. John had already suspected it, but now. . . . Castiel's implacable gaze met John's anguished one.

"And you shall raise righteous sons."

A car barreled down the empty stretch of road, coming to a screeching halt yards away from where Mary and her possessed father were still locked in an unholy parody of lust. Mary tore away from Samuel, crying in shame and despair.

A man—a familiar looking man—jumped out of the car with gun in hand just as the demonic black smoke erupted from Samuel Campbell's mouth with an spine-chilling roar. The dead man's dried out husk fell limply to the earth like a puppet with its strings cut. But John had no time or attention to spare for his younger self, gasping and twitching as he took breath once more, because the man from the car was his son, a horror-struck expression on Dean's face as he and Mary stared at each other over younger John's body.

Castiel shifted beside him, attention seemingly focused on Dean, and John felt some of the life returning to his limbs.

"That's Dean. What the fuck?" John had time to ask before Castiel pushed John's body further back amongst the trees, up against the bark of the tree he had so recently been punching.

"Stay here," Castiel hissed. "You must _not_ be seen, most especially not by Dean." As if John could move even if he wanted—which he did. Then the angel slipped away from John, his shadow stretching out from the light cast by the headlights of the parked car. A shadow with _wings_. He watched as Castiel came to a stop beside Dean. Dear God, his _son_. Alive. Well.

Even the realization of what Mary had done, and how it had doomed their family, could not take away John's exultation at seeing Dean out of that damn hospital bed. Mind racing, John started to remember other moments, moments falling into place like tumblers in a lock. Dean. His boy, grown up and meeting him in a diner all those years ago. Talking him into buying the Impala. He had forgotten the odd stranger—Dean Van Halen—until just now.

John didn't know how it was possible, and yet the here he was in the past himself. And Dean—it was true, what Castiel had told him. This Dean was older than John remembered. Older and transfixed by the sight of his parents.

Hell of a way to find out what Mary had done. Hell of a way for both of them. John wanted badly to go to Dean then, to lay a hand on his shoulder. As he watched helplessly, the damn angel did it for him. Laid his fucking hand right on Dean's shoulder, gripped him tight, and damned if Dean didn't look at the angel like he was about the only constant in Dean's universe.

Huh.

Mary had always told Dean, 'Angels are watching over you'. John wondered if she ever knew just how true it was.

Then both Dean and Castiel disappeared. What the hell? Moments passed, moments where John watched as the past played out uninterrupted. His younger self sat up in Mary's arms and held her through her hysterical tears; tried to shield her eyes from her father's corpse. He led Mary away to find help.

His younger self didn't have a fucking clue he'd just died and been brought to life by the same goddamn demon that would steal everything from him in the future. The past. John didn't even know anymore. His arm and leg were fucked and aching, and he could feel morning dew seeping up the legs of his jeans.

John still couldn't move; not that he didn't try. Sonuvabitch angel left him no chance to change the past. Their future. Just when John uneasily began to wonder if the angel had left him stranded, he heard Castiel's voice behind him.

"I have returned Dean to his rightful time," Castiel said. The angel sounded weary. Troubled.

"Why'd you do it?" John asked. He was itching for the angel to let him free. "Why'd you make Dean watch?"

"Like you, Dean must know what Azazel did," Castiel replied. "He tried to stop it from happening, but that was not to be." His hand waved carelessly and John found himself set free. Without warning, John punched at the angel's jaw. Castiel didn't flinch, merely regarded John with a grave expression as John's fist met his flesh.

_Shiiit!_ John shook his hand out. Angel had jaws of fucking steel.

"You couldn't have just told him?" John growled. "Dean worshiped Mary! Why would you take that from him?" John knew he was making no sense—deep in the heart of him, knew he wasn't really talking about Dean, but rather himself. He couldn't help it.

"I showed Dean his mother's choice for the same reason I showed it to you, John." Castiel frowned and his voice resonated more powerfully than any human's could. "I did it to save your sons. So Dean can save Sam."

Castiel's piercing gaze bored into John. "I did it so you can save Dean."

John's rage passed from him, left him only cold terror mixed with understanding. Dean was dying, even now, in the future. The present. Whatever. Dean was dying, or already dead, and yet—he had been alive just now, in the past. In Dean's future. That meant there was a way.

A way to save Dean. A way to stop Sam from becoming. . . what John saw him become. And John had something Azazel wanted.

"The Colt," John muttered.

Castiel nodded, seeing John's realization. "The Colt will be a start," the angel said, cryptically.

John shook his head. There had to be another way. "I give up the Colt, I'm losing my only chance to end that bastard. The only way I can keep him from Sam." How could John sacrifice one son to save the other?

Castiel laid a hand on John's shoulder. "I have seen your future, John. I can promise you this much—sacrifice the Colt now, for Dean, and the day will come when a Winchester holds it again. Within the year, Azazel will be dead."

What choice did he have, except to believe Castiel? For Dean, there was no choice at all.

John straightened. "Okay. I'm ready."  


* * *

  


Castiel was waiting as John limped around the corner to the intensive care unit. The silent climb up from the hospital basement had been murder on his bad leg. Not that it would matter for much longer. The angel slouched against the dingy beige wall with his hands sunk deep in his pockets and a pensive expression on his face. Castiel stepped away from the wall when he saw John's approach, and moved to intercept him.

"Out of my way," John barked. He had to get to Dean; had to make sure that bastard Azazel had done the job. John refused to think about what came next.

"Wait, John," Castiel said. Seeing the stormy expression on his face, the angel reached out a hand to John's chest. "Please. There are things you _must_ know, and very little time. The terms of the deal will come into effect as soon as you've seen Dean."

"Dean—"

"Dean is well," Castiel assured him. He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I promise you. Azazel possessed the reaper responsible for courting Dean's soul and forced it to heal his injuries."

Despite himself, John found himself believing the angel. He wanted to see Dean with his own eyes, but he would give Castiel this much.

"You sold your soul for him."

It was a statement, not a question, but John responded anyway. "The Colt and my soul," he said.

"You did it to save Dean?" Castiel asked. There was an odd expression on Castiel's face. Something like pity. Understanding.

"For both my sons," John growled. He met the angel's eyes. "I think we both know that the only one with a chance in hell of saving Sammy is Dean."

"Yes."

John closed his eyes. Didn't pray. Goddamn. He swiped a hand over his face.

Castiel shifted slightly, looking earnest and somehow more human than John had yet seen. "John, your sacrifice will be rewarded." Despite himself, John found he could not take his eyes off the angel. "Your soul won't languish in the fires of Perdition forever, though endless torment awaits you."

Fuuuck. Angels were shit for pep talks, weren't they? John tried to muster up a glare and failed.

"Listen. Even if it takes a hundred years; two hundred. Even though you suffer torture too horrible to name. You will be offered a choice in Hell. There is only one choice— to suffer on the rack, or to put other souls on it. To be tortured, or become the torturer. You. Must. Not. Get. Off. The. Rack."

Castiel leaned into John's space. "If you hold to that, then I promise you. A doorway _will_ open. You will escape Perdition. And when you do, you will see your sons again."

John swallowed as the angel continued, his voice low and fierce.

"Do you understand? You'll watch as Dean puts a bullet—the _last_ bullet—into Azazel. You'll see your sons destroy Azazel's soul for eternity."

Yes, John understood. To see the bastard go down—to see Dean and Sam again—there was nothing John wouldn't, couldn't, do. He licked his dry lips and nodded wordlessly.

"But you must not get off that rack, or all hope is lost. Remember, John."

"I will," John muttered, voice hoarse. "By God, I will." Castiel smiled.

"Good." He stepped aside to let John pass. "Go to Dean."

John moved past him shakily, and then paused. "Wait," he said, looking over his shoulder at Castiel. He turned to face the angel. "My boys. You're from the future, right? And you—I could tell Dean trusted you." Dean didn't trust so many people, and his boy was a good judge of character, most times. It had been obvious, the way Dean had stared at Castiel like he was some kind of lifeline. Maybe more; but John had no time to consider that—not now.

"Yes," Castiel said, simply.

"I want you to watch out for them," John said. Not asking, though he knew his eyes were pleading. "Take care of them."

Castiel let out a sigh. "I will."

"And. I need you to tell them. Tell them I love them, and that I'm proud of them." John's voice shook and his eyes stung. He cleared his throat.

"No, I won't," Castiel replied gently. He smiled a little at John's stricken expression; cocked his head to regard John seriously. "You still have time. Tell them that yourself." Then Castiel touched John's forehead as he spoke softly.

Final rites, John's numb brain supplied for him. He wanted to laugh. He'd just sold his goddamn soul, and the angel wanted to bless him? He stayed still beneath Castiel's fingers all the same.

"Go in peace," Castiel finally murmured. "May the Lord save you and raise you up." For an instant, John thought he felt the brush of wings upon his face. Then the angel disappeared.  


* * *

  


The conversation with Sam was awkward and bittersweet; with Dean, even more so.

Sam cut right to the chase, angry and accusing. John didn't have the heart to correct him. He'd gone after the demon alright, but not for the reasons Sam suspected.

_Can we not fight?_

John looked at Sam and saw the man he had become. Stubborn and full of pride, but a good man. Too much like John by half; John had butted heads with his own father the same way.

He tried to see Azazel's taint under Sam's skin, in his blood, the coiled serpent that could _(would never, please God)_ twist his son into something Dean would be forced to put down. A monster. A demon.

_I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?_

He couldn't see it. Not this Sam: floppy hair and earnest, pissed-off face. God, he looked like his mother too. John had always seen Mary in Dean and not Sam, but at that moment he saw her. He offered a weak smile and asked for coffee he'd never drink, needing the time to make his peace with Dean.

_I just want you to know that I am so proud of you._

It broke John's heart that Dean was so wary of him. He knew it said nothing good about him that Dean could only think he was possessed again, to be praising him. Damnit, he wanted (_needed_) more time. But there was none to be had. At least he'd tried.

And then there were the terrible visions of the future given to him by Castiel. Visions of Sam.

_I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay._

John hoped he would be forgiven for putting this on Dean. But angel promise or no, John Winchester believed a little insurance couldn't help. Forewarned is forearmed.

_Don't be scared, Dean._

It was the last lie John would tell either of his sons—as if John himself wasn't fucking terrified of the future.

The image came to him then of Sam as a young boy afraid of the dark; the monster in the closet. John had given Sam a .45 caliber and beamed in pride at the way Dean had stepped in to teach Sam how to shoot it properly. John had always armed his sons against the evils of the world, and he wouldn't stop now.

So he leaned towards Dean and whispered his last command. Dean would obey; Dean always obeyed. And though John had little faith in God or angels or any kind of justice in the universe, he had every faith in his boys. They would find a way to come through this.

Azazel was waiting for John back in his hospital room. John fought back the urge to shoot the bastard where he stood—saw the triumphant, hungry gleam in the demon's yellow eyes as he smirked at John.

"Okay." He set the Colt down on the metal tray and stepped back.  


* * *

  


There weren't any hellhounds. There weren't any reapers.

_Okay, stop compressions._

Only the world swallowed up in a wash of sickly yellow, and the sensation of falling. Falling forever.

_. . . . that's it everybody._

John never heard Sam's cries, nor Dean's as his son clutched the door frame to the hospital room where the doctor and nurses tried in vain to save him.

He heard screaming, the wailing of lost souls in the abyss. John heard the clanking of chains. He heard the sound of knives and hooks and worse sinking into soft, putrid flesh.

John heard Azazel laughing as the deep gaping maw of Hell opened and swallowed his soul.

He heard Castiel's voice. "I promise you. You will see your sons again. . . . But you must not get off that rack."

John wouldn't.

_I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 am._   


* * *

  



End file.
